


after hours

by freloux



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Drunk Sex, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 06:10:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5279762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freloux/pseuds/freloux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i left my sunglasses there. and most of my dignity.<br/>(just filling in that missing scene.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	after hours

He's never seen Clara _drunk_ before. They've gone drinking together before, sure: he's got a bottle of scotch that he keeps in easy access for special occasions. Or just general tough shit. _It's been a day. Yeah? You too?_ and they'll throw a few back.

But this is different, in a way he rather likes. Clara has become a louder, fuller version of herself. She seems happier, too, in a way that she hasn't been in a long time. Not since Danny. But the odd thing is that Clara is also laughing at his jokes, even though they aren't particularly funny. Were they ever? The Doctor goes mentally wandering on that particular tangent for a good long while, which is when he realizes that he's a bit drunk himself.

"My god," Clara giggles, clutching at his arm. "A drunk Time Lord, now that's something to behold."

"It'll - it'll calibrate - metabolise or whateverizcalled," the Doctor responds. He frowns. Stumbles a little, nearly knocks into one of these alien people. He, or she, or it, takes about five minutes to turn their entire neck around and stare down at the Doctor. The Doctor is six feet tall, but has felt rather short since arriving on this particular planet.

The aliens here look human (well, except for the neck thing), which is not that reassuring. As if everyone on this planet got stretched out by the hands of time. It rather messes with the Doctor's already foggy, drunk brain. They speak to him in a hissing, lilting speech. The Doctor uses his sonic sunglasses to translate. Something about a bacchanalia happening right now - it's part of the New Year celebration. Aren't you and your lover going to join us?

He explains to Clara what's going on, minus the whole "lover" bit. He and Clara might fool around together (part of the _tough day-yeah-you-too?_ routine), but he's not sure he wants labels on it, not yet.

"A _what_?" Clara asks.

The bacchanalia is one of the filthiest local customs that the Doctor has ever been involved in. And he's been involved in many. There's a lot of drinking and blood and sex going on. The Doctor wonders if these people don't all get tired of this, since they've been doing it for 200 straight years. But everyone he's asked just explains that today is the New Year, so this is what happens. Then they look at him like he's crazy. Maybe he is, and maybe it's just always been the New Year here. Some kind of temporal loop shit.

He dimly remembers Clara handing her sunglasses to one of the aliens because apparently he wants to try them on. She insists, loudly, that he's her friend, he's gonna give them back. The Doctor rolls his eyes - he's had enough companions to know that that's not going to happen - but humors her by getting her another drink. That's the thing about this bacchanalia. There are drinks everywhere. Not just in glasses, either: it literally flows in the streets. One of the aliens opened a tap somewhere and so the wine just runs in a vinegary river, swirls and eddies around their feet.

Both Clara and the Doctor end up yelling with the crowd as two aliens engage in some sort of naked wrestling match. At least, that's what it appears to be; neither Clara nor the Doctor are completely sure whether it's wrestling or actual sex. The bacchanalia rather blurs the line between the two. Clara's dress gets half torn off in the fray, and her hair tumbles out of its ponytail. She leans against the Doctor, laughing harder and harder.

"It's just so," she pants, catching her breath. "this is just -"

Clara makes a sweeping gesture, which practically hits a passing alien. The Doctor takes her arm and holds it protectively. "Careful," he warns. "They might take that the wrong way."

"But don't you want to be a part of this?" Clara asks, looking up at him. "You and your endless curiosity about alien customs must find it very interesting."

Just then, a horde of naked aliens goes running past. The Doctor averts his eyes. "Yes. Very interesting."

"You're not being _fun_ ," Clara protests. "C'mon." Which is when she leans up to smear a kiss against his neck, curling her hand over his bicep for balance.

Clara knows all the Gallifreyan erogenous zones by now, neck included, which is just not playing fair. The Doctor lets out a weak little whimper and runs his hands all over her, finally settling at her hips. His fingers move easily from fabric to skin: her dress has gotten very, very ripped.

"Are you sure you want to do this? Now? In public?" he manages to ask against her mouth.

She looks up at him with a bit of a gleam in her eye. "Why not?"

That's when a brief, triumphant flute sounds in the distance, and there's another rush of nudity. Clara ends up getting snatched away from the Doctor in the throng of cheering, naked revelers. It sends him into hyperdrive: duty of care and all that. He spends an hour winding his way past columns and trees, shouting her name half-heartedly and trying not to get covered in alien fluids of _any_ type. His voice gets lost in the roar of the crowd.

Finally, he finds a quiet tree to sit under, on a hill far away from the bacchanalia, and waits this out. She'll come back to him eventually; she usually does. Sure enough, she reappears twenty minutes later, when one of the planet's three suns is just beginning to dip past the horizon. Clara's got two glasses in one hand and her shoes in the other. Her sunglasses appear to be long gone.

"I don't know what the hell this is," she explains cheerfully, "but it's _delicious_."

She passes him one of the glasses and they drink for a bit in companionable silence. He looks down at her with something approaching warm affection. The feeling begins to approach something else when he notices how her dress, now ripped almost to oblivion, is beginning to ride up her thigh. As a distraction, he asks her if she got involved in what's happening down below them.

"No!" she protests. "It was fun to watch, though."

The Doctor clears his throat and makes a point of focusing very, very seriously on the distant horizon. Stands up, leans against the tree, closes off. Clara laughs and shuffles her way across the grass until she's pressed flush against him. She leans up to kiss his neck again, which is when things hit fast-forward very quickly. He bends down to kiss her and she returns each press of his lips, again and again. Those patterns that they always fall into with each other: that push-pull for who will lead, who's going to start this.

He's suddenly very aware that she's now taking off her underwear. Clara slides her tongue against his as she loops her hand around his cock. She sways on her tiptoes, which looks a bit precarious. So he undoes his trousers (in his dim, drunk mind, this seems like a useful step), and picks her up to brace her. When she slides all the way down him, her cunt makes this sick, wet noise and he groans. Feels absolutely filthy that he's doing this with her. Her thighs shake against him and she pants, curls her hands on his shoulders, and works her way back up his length.

She makes a frustrated huff. "I can't - I can't get the angle right."

"What, didn't watch the bacchanalia for long enough?" he returns, and she laughs. "Here - like this."

'Like this' turns out to be on the ground with her underneath him. Clara's skin is sweat-slick against his; it makes her hair stick to her forehead, framing her face. Her eyebrows knit together, lips tight, and she moans deep in her throat with every tiny contraction.

Down the hill, he hears a distant cheer.


End file.
